


Regarding Keith's Galran Tendencies

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [9]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Catlike galran behaviours, Keith behaving more galra, Keith with pronounced galran tendencies, M/M, Mounting, Occasional galran features, References to Knotting, Shades of A/B/O, The galraning 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:26:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24173581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Post-space whale, Keith starts embracing his galran heritage. Lance reaps the rewards.Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744681
Comments: 10
Kudos: 366





	Regarding Keith's Galran Tendencies

**Author's Note:**

> "Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account [here.](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952) Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.

Keith shows up with a cosmic wolf and a galra mom in tow, spouting stories about space whales and Altean colonies, all tall and long-haired and stalking off to pilot the black lion like he hasn’t been gone for weeks, and it’s a fucking _lot_ to handle.

Honestly, Lance thinks he takes it all in pretty graceful stride, considering.

He only makes Keith explain it to him, like, six times. (“Yes, Lance, a _whale_ whale. No, there were no natives, and if there were, they would not have been named _Shamuvians_.”)

He only fawns over that extra-cut new figure for a few days. (“How did living off the land give you a _hip v_ like that?!”)

Maybe a week or two. (“Just once more. Let me touch them _once_ more and I’m done, I swear.”)

Okay, a solid month. (“..I’m _not_ drooling...much...”)

He takes the news that Keith is now technically a couple years older (despite having only being gone a couple months) with a lighthearted, “Ooh, a silver fox. I do like older men…”

So really, Lance feels pretty entitled to a little bit of freaking out as it becomes clearer and clearer that Keith, having spent two straight years with only Krolia around as an influence, is all-around, for lack of a better term, _more galra_.

And it’s hot.

God, it's _hot_.

It’s not gradual. The whole team notices all at once while they’re strategizing around a fire one night. They’re giving Shiro a few extra days to recover from his soul transplant (and maybe for everyone else to get used to that) when Keith and Krolia get into a rare argument. It’s nothing serious—something to do with the best method of contacting the remaining Blades (honestly, Lance isn’t paying all that much attention)—but it’s increasingly tense.

And their voices don’t raise; they _tighten_. They start to rumble in the middle.

They get _growly_. Lance is just about to clue back in and maybe make a joke (because sometimes pissing Keith off in just the right way is the best way to calm him down) when his boyfriend full-stop makes this choked off yowl-y noise and follows it up with a _hiss_. Krolia’s ears go stiff and sideways. It’s almost funny—airplane-ear-esque—but no one laughs. She makes a yowl-y noise of her own that grumbles from somewhere deep in her chest; warbles dangerously.

Keith’s ears stay put, but his eyes go yellow between one blink and the next. The indigo in them shrinks to nearly nothing as his pupils turn oblong and cat-like. He bears his teeth.

Er.

Bears his _fangs_.

Lance’s heart trips in his chest.

They rest against his lips like he doesn’t notice; like he’s _used_ to them.

Lance’s heart trips in his _dick_.

They stay seated, but something in their posture turns poised and threatening. They go scarily still, not even seeming to breathe (except they must be, if their caterwauling is anything to go by).

“I outrank you,” Krolia growls. “Yield.”

Keith’s snarl deepens. Krolia’s ears press further back toward her skull. “Keith,” she snaps. “ _Yield_.”

And with another hiss, aborted partway through, Keith does.

He lowers his gaze with a sullen little _tch_ behind his teeth (fangs; Jesus Christ, _fangs_ ), growl fading in his chest. Wordlessly, he offers his right arm, palm up, and Krolia’s ears prick forward as she takes it and sinks her teeth into his wrist. For a second it seems like Keith is going to start up that yowling noise again, but after a moment it becomes apparent that it’s more of a purr.

Keith is _purring_.

His mother releases him. She’s done no damage; Keith doesn’t even check the bite. He just pulls his arm back and leans forward and bumps his forehead against hers. She smiles; presses her nose against his temple; starts a soft purr of her own. When they sit back again, Keith has round pupils and indigo irises and white sclera, and their rumbling only lasts another moment.

Hunk speaks for everyone when he breaks the ensuing silence:

“ _Um_.”

And as if to prove just _how much_ of a number his time in the Abyss has done on him, Keith shrugs with minimal discomfort and only blushes a little as he says, “Uh. Galra thing.”

It doesn’t occur to Lance for a _while_ how much those words will haunt him over the coming weeks. (It _does_ occur to him to follow behind Keith when he goes to take a piss later that evening. His boyfriend moans when he’s deep-throated, and it startles Lance how badly he wishes it were a yowl.)

Listen, he’s glad Keith is finally accepting his galra heritage; accepting all of his amazing self. It’s a _good thing_. It is.

It’s just fucking _torture_ for Lance, too, is all. He wants to be chill about it—wants to show Keith that he’s just as cool with his galra side as he is with his human one—but Jesus _fuck_ , how is he supposed to be chill when Keith might do something at any given moment that has Lance ready to cream his pants like a teenager? They go foraging for supplies—anything that might help them on their trip to Earth—and upon finding something that looks startlingly like poison ivy, Keith stretches out his neck to sniff daintily at it, nose wrinkling as he recoils at the smell.

Lance _just_ quells his moan.

Lying under the stars, listening to mumbled threads of conversation that drop off in waves as the group falls asleep, Lance doesn’t really notice that he’s been carding his fingers through Keith’s hair until he idly stops doing it. There’s a soft warning of a growl. Lance isn’t even sure Keith is fully conscious, but he starts the touching ( _petting_ ) up again anyway, and the rumble goes creamy and round; turns into another purr.

Lance gets too hard to fall asleep.

Keith gets into a tizzy with Acxa, and this time he’s not the one to back down. She doesn’t offer her arm, but instead clasps her hands behind her and leans back, stomach unguarded. The hand Keith briefly lays on it is tipped with claws.

_Claws_.

It’s _unreasonable_.

But Lance can take it.

He’s a good boyfriend who _refuses_ to endanger Keith’s new, probably tenuous (knowing him) propensity to be his authentic self by doing anything that could be construed as _fetishizing_. He can take the claws and the fangs and the eyes and the deeply, _deeply_ sexy array of growly noises…

But he can’t, it turns out, take the _greed_.

Keith owns him; has owned him for a while; will keep him. But now _everyone has to know it_. He drapes himself over Lance at every given opportunity; pulls him in close by his shoulders or hips or skull when anyone else’s eyes linger for what he deems to be too long. (The actual amount of time varies; depends on how recently one of them has been inside the other.) He nuzzles under Lance’s chin and breathes deep, like there’s a cache of his boyfriend he can snort for the high. He kisses him good morning, and then nudges their foreheads together with a catlike trill, insistent until Lance kisses him in the hollow of one ear or the other.

So Lance is already hanging on by the most frayed of aroused threads when he returns post-shower to his room at the Garrison only to find his closet and dresser raided. Whoever the culprit is, they’ve left him with nothing but a trail of mismatched socks, which he’s forced to follow in nothing but a towel.

He’s expecting a grinning Matt Holt at the end of it, or maybe even Hunk, desperate for a little lightheartedness amongst all the war prep. He finds his clothes in a mound in the corner of the common area (thank _god_ Voltron’s been given their own private wing), Krolia crouched beside them. He doesn’t even _notice_ the mullet emerging from the pile until he gets close enough to hear the growling.

“Keith,” Krolia sighs, “Keith, this is just _rude_. We don’t nest in _public_.”

Keith gives some kind of rebuttal to that—something that sounds raspy and _dangerous_ —but Lance doesn’t hear it.

Nesting.

Keith is… _nesting_.

And he’s used Lance’s clothes to do it. Lance understands these things in the vaguest possible sense, and yet they have him making a weird, wet stuttering noise in his throat.

A few things happen all at once—or maybe just in quick succession, Lance’s focus is too wobbly to take it all in. Krolia turns at Lance’s noise, and puts her hands up with a panicked, “Lance, _no_ , don’t come any–!”

Shiro approaches from the side doorway with a paternal, concerned, “Is everything alright in here?”

He puts a hand on Lance’s bare shoulder.

Krolia swivels with a “Keith, just–!” but there’s already a blur of black and ivory shooting up in a flurry of fabric.

Lance doesn’t even clock the arms wrapping around him: he’s standing, and then he’s not. Suddenly he’s buried beneath several layers of clothing and boyfriend.

“Whoa, what’s–?” Shiro starts, but somewhere above Lance’s head (above the spot where it’s being clutched like a teddy bear to Keith’s chest) there’s a protracted, knifelike hiss.

And damn, Krolia can sound so _sharp_ when she wants to, spitting her son’s name whip-crack quick. Keith’s hissing turns into disgruntled catty sounds that threaten to throw themselves out of his mouth in a series of high-pitched yowls. “Go _away_ ,” he growls somewhere inside the noise, “ _My_ nest. _My_ mate.”

Lance wheezes, and not from the tightening of Keith’s arms. Krolia sighs. Lance can’t see it, but she must look at Shiro. “Do humans go through a phase like this, too? When their hormones make them _completely unreasonable_?”

“You have _no_ idea…”

Lance stops paying attention to them. “Keith,” he says. His voice comes out steadier than he’d been expecting.

The hissing/growling/sound-that-will-feature-in-all-Lance’s-wet-dreams-for-the-rest-of-time cuts off abruptly. It should be disconcerting. It is, a little. Mostly it’s just hot, though. “Mmm?”

“Move your nest.”

The sound-that-will-feature kicks back in, albeit quieter. “ _Why_?”

Lance licks his lips; wriggles as best he can in the confines of his entire wardrobe _and_ Keith’s possessive hold until he can look his boyfriend in the eye properly. “Because I want to fuck you in it.”

The sound-that-will-feature gets _louder_ ; louder than it had been before; loud enough that Krolia and Shiro’s voices drop away and Lance doesn’t know if he’s more mortified or _horny_.

“ _Here_ ,” Keith demands.

Lance is almost cowed, but he knows how these stand-offs work now. “No,” he says. “Move your nest or I’m leaving it.”

God, how he wants to shift under the intensity of Keith’s stare after that. But _he knows how these stand-offs work now_ , so he keeps marble statue still.

The sound cuts again. ( _Fuck_.)

The world goes dark and weightless. Lance is being carried like just another sweatshirt amongst his tangle of clothes.

He’s pretty sure his towel has slipped off; is now just another bit of laundry in the pile. He wonders how many of his things he’s leaving obscene precome stains on, hard as he is from the nonchalant show of Galran power; from the fact that Keith, even in his yielding, is still so goddamn _strong_.

He’s deposited unceremoniously onto another floor with an, “Oof!”

Curiously, there’s no follow-up weight; no _whump_ as Keith throws himself into the mass. Upon wrestling himself free (mostly; he flops over with his legs still kind of tangled), Lance finds out why.

Keith is…

He’s…

Well, he’s on the floor (Lance’s floor; turns out he’s brought them back to Lance’s room, in the end).

He’s on his hands and knees, facing away from Lance, though he’s peeking back over his shoulder so his boyfriend can see the yellowed, preternaturally intense look in his eye. He’s worked his pants down to mid-thigh.

There’s a distinct shine that runs down the cleft of his ass and makes a mess of the hair on his balls.

As Lance watches, he lowers his shoulders to the ground; spreads his arms out to the sides.

He’s…

Holy _fuck_.

Keith is _presenting_.

“Keith…” Lance breathes, but has no follow-up.

“Lance,” Keith answers. “Fuck me.”

Usually Lance doesn’t have to be told twice, but…“Uh,” he says. “But I–”

Keith juts his hips back impatiently. “I’m already ready,” he says, “So _fuck me_.”

Lance can’t even breathe with his mouth closed anymore. He’s never _been_ so hard without anyone touching his cock before. “I need–”

Keith reaches into one bunched-up pocket and tosses a packet at Lance that hits him in the eyebrow (there’s a “you’ll shoot your eye out” joke in there somewhere, but he won’t think of it for hours).

“Lance, fuck, just…” He whines with that rough, feline edge. “ _Mount me_.”

Okay, _that_ Lance doesn’t need to be told twice.

Suddenly, all Keith’s galran idiosyncrasies seem to stitch themselves together beneath Lance’s skin. All his reactions to that _ferocity_ come back in a heady rush and he gives the fuck into them.

And here’s the thing about all of this:

If pressed hard enough, despite what he’d have _everyone_ believe, Lance would have to admit: he and Keith don’t fuck.

They (Keith would slap Lance to hear it, blushing all the while, but that doesn’t make it any less true) _make love_.

All their intensity manifests in hot, slow physicality; in careful, specific touches that can only happen between them (because they’re just _so_...and they’ve always _been_ so...).

This is something else, entirely. It’s almost scary, the way Lance can lube himself up so quickly and then haul Keith back by the hips without really thinking about it. He’s usually so attentive with him; vigilant, to be sure he’s relaxed and comfortable and _into it_. Now Keith's choked growl doesn’t even give Lance pause. He finds himself tugging one of his ass cheeks to the side so that he can slip a thumb into him. He slides in easily; realizes with a shock that he’s not even checking for the sake of Keith’s well-being. He just wants to wants to feel how fucking _ready_ Keith is, because Lance is going to make him _take it_.

Absent is his usual, ‘You okay? Tell me if anything hurts.’ It’s replaced with an absently dominant, “I’m going to fuck this pretty little hole until the only thing you can do is make more of those pretty little noises.”

The sound Keith makes might be a purr, but it comes off more growl (all caught up like that in a hedonistic, lascivious back stretch). He paws at a bit of fabric near his left hand; scoops Lance’s used towel closer to his face so he can inhale its scent. “ _My_ mate,” he sighs.

If any semblance of control or decorum had been left in Lance, that shatters it. “Fucking _right_ I’m yours,” he grunts as he grips his cock by the base and thrusts mindlessly forward so his head pops into Keith with a wet snap.

And the sound Keith makes at _that_...

Lance sinks the rest of the way in as Keith’s roar (god, he sounds like a _mountain lion_ ) fades into a throaty roll. He drapes himself over Keith’s back; instinctively nips at the back of his neck when he tilts his chin down in offer. Keith tightens, pushes back, rumbles more threateningly, but Lance refuses to move. He just runs his hands over his arms and bites harder at his nape. “I’m yours,” he murmurs against the skin afterward. “I’m yours and you’re going to lie there and take your reward for having me.”

“Hah...fuck, yeah, please…” Keith’s words are a little slurred. His fangs are out and he’s gnawing at one corner of the towel, like he can eat Lance’s scent.

“Good kitty.” Lance keeps his chest against Keith’s back, but cants his hips hard; _ruts_ into Keith so the feline noises he lets out convulse rhythmically. “Such a good kitty for me,” he murmurs. He can barely hear himself; his boyfriend is so _loud_. He braces himself on the floor beside Keith’s shoulders so he can bear down with more force, and growls in time with his thrusts, “Such a...good...fucking...kitty…”

“Shit, Lance, _my_ mate, mine, mine, mine...” Keith is starting to leave gouges in the floor under his claws. His _claws_.

_Fuck_ , Lance swears all that rumbling and caterwauling vibrates down to Keith’s ass so he can feel it all around his cock and shit… _shit_...

He can’t work a hand underneath both of them without losing his leverage. “Getting close,” he warns.

It seems hard for Keith to answer. He’s crushed under Lance; rumbling with that contented, desperate purr-growl, feline eyes rolling back. “When you fill me,” he finally grits. “Wanna come when you fill me…”

It only takes a few more vicious thrusts. “Coming–!”

Lance is surprised he has the wherewithal, but as he falls over the edge he makes out Keith’s desperate, “Fucking _bite me_...”

He swears it makes the first wave hit harder; makes his cock pulse nearly to the point of pain with his orgasm. He sinks his teeth into Keith’s neck and the action feels foreign; not a nip, but an actual _bite_.

The reaction is instantaneous. (And shit, Lance didn’t know it was possible for an orgasm to intensify again halfway through, but here he is.) Keith yowls, and goes boneless beneath Lance’s teeth, and comes so hard Lance can feel every distinct, ferocious throb. And even as he’s still coming—still twitching _so hard_ —he sinks into a smooth, undulating purr.

Lance’s cock manages one last pitiful pulse. He peppers kisses over the bite mark he’s left (all even indents, and he finds himself wondering what it would look like on his own dark skin; how much deeper the craters from Keith’s fangs would be) and Keith’s purring deepens. He makes to pull out, but Keith clamps down on him. “Stay for a bit,” he says, “Like...like you’re…”

Lance inhales; wonders what it would smell like to Keith, with his galran senses; wonders if those senses are still functioning now that his boyfriend’s eyes are white and indigo again, his fingernails and teeth blunt. They probably are, Lance figures, given his ensuing request:

“Like you’re _knotting me_...”

Lance groans. God, what he’d give for a shorter refractory period. “Okay,” he says, “Okay…” and wraps one arm around Keith’s chest.

He stays buried inside until he can’t anymore, Keith’s occasional tensing inevitably forcing his soft, oversensitive cock out. A displeased noise trips its way out among all the purring. Lance flops them over onto their sides so he can run his fingertips over Keith’s ribs, and the rumble continues without further interruption. “Good kitty,” he says again, but Keith must be a little more human now, because he snorts.

Not too human to nuzzle backward, too, though. “Is...was that okay?” Keith asks.

“Okay is not the word I’d use,” Lance says, “Mind-blowing, maybe. Stupendous. Spectacular. Something along those lines.”

Keith’s purring intensifies. He’s vibrating so hard that Lance’s chest, pressed against his back, goes a little numb.


End file.
